


Wandering Eyes

by WrittenTales



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Cheating, M/M, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-01 17:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8632078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrittenTales/pseuds/WrittenTales
Summary: Just after coming back from the front lines, the boys have a new threat in the form of a fresh commissioned Musketeer. Will Athos and d'Artagnan's relationship stand the ripples that Abélard is determined to create? Will even the tethers of Aramis and Porthos' bond withstand the pain that Porthos carried in his heart on the front lines?





	1. Abélard de la Pierre

_"My woman has a wandering eye; Yarrow, thyme and thorn. She eyes the ocean and the sky. While stitching sails, forlorn. I got a kiss, and then a tear. As she bade me go; but on the waves, my heart's in fear: My woman's in the know." - F.T. MCKINSTRY_

This particular morning, Athos awakes to a certain feeling of emptiness, an emptiness that most certainly would lead to dread. This was a feeling he hadn’t recognized since the front lines, as every morning meant a new day to fear for something more than his own morality; he had fear for his men, for France, Porthos’ and d’Artagnan’s well-being especially, to mull over with panic. It was clear enough to state that stepping into familiar, safe territory was the remedy to his unnoticed anxiety. No longer did every crack and thump bring him to a horrendous edge though a soldier’s mentality will always be there, but a general’s, he could confess had faded along with the black coat that sat stowed away in his closet.

D’Artagnan stirred beside him, blissfully naked against his chest, turned onto his side, his body instinctually falling into the pattern of when Athos would leave early hours into the dawn to enter the general’s tent, to discuss battle tactics and intercepted letters travelling beyond the border. He’s been away so often that he’s failed to notice new scars that now arise on d’Artagnan’s young flesh, too tired to keep account and to careless to tend to them. There was a time where even the tiniest of scratches made Athos drag Aramis in tow to make sure it was as harmless as d’Artagnan claimed.

The sun barely peaked above the horizon, casting an unnatural hue of orange onto the barrage of clouds, making a portrait of clashing blues and yellows. This glow casted a reflection upon d’Artagnan’s dark skin, turning it into a lovely tan. Athos couldn’t resist the urge to kiss the hardening muscle of his shoulder, leading a trail of kisses to his neck.

“It’s too early.” D’Artagnan mumbles, aimlessly waving a hand to discourage the onslaught of kisses.

“Don’t let it become a habit to sleep in so late.” Athos teases, smiling when d’Artagnan turns over on his back, his brown eyes peaking open to stare at Athos in the morning light.

D’Artagnan doesn’t have to look too hard to find the soft lines of aging starting to breach the smooth surface beside his eyes, the dulling vibrancy to Athos’ compelling blue eyes, and the grey that is starting to appear on the tips of his beard. Athos still possesses the great strength and vigor of a soldier, but as the days turn to months, perhaps Athos has lost a bit of his usual speed, letting his weak spots grow wider when they spar, but d’Artagnan has noticed the pain. He won’t get over the fact that Athos’ blatant ignorance towards his wounds have almost costed him his life neither the fact that the pain resonates with him, sometimes has him limping for days before he can walk properly or moving to his other arm before he can lift it again without restraint.

D’Artagnan had made it his personal agenda over the past two years to compensate for Athos’ off-key behavior, knowing he couldn’t just tie the overworked captain to a chair and wait for him to heal when there was a massive war going on just outside their tent. The army needed Athos desperately, the actual general never giving a passing life in the name of France a second glance, if he died, who would guide them? Who would love each and everyone one of them as devoutly as Athos has? Someone who the King would rush to put in Athos’ place wouldn’t give as much attention to detail as Athos, never.

But it was not just the reins of France’s fate did Athos’ life hold, but also his own heart. For he didn’t know how he would continue fighting as strongly as he did if Athos were to fall, especially on his watch. Sometimes he feared Athos’ death so much that when he would collapse into bed after an extensive argument with the general, he would whisper to whichever divine power that would listen, to protect him, to keep him living for another day. To give him enough strength for the both of them, and in hope that in some way, his love was enough to keep him alive and breathing when the waves turned rough.

It’ll never be necessary to speak of his petty ways to keep his sanity, every soldier had their own way to compensate the madness of war. Athos had his secrets and d’Artagnan had his own. Porthos surely faced the agony, knowing full well who the agony was for.

D’Artagnan would be lying if he said he didn’t hear the harsh pants that held back unshed sadness, the furious drinking of wine, and the rare occasion of a fuck between Porthos and a willing patron who had been hinting non-stop for his attention. They’ve all been missing something in their hearts when Aramis left, no longer was it four legs supporting a ship, the three have been having a hard enough time trying to keep it afloat on their own. Till at some point of the war, did d’Artagnan realize that every growl and every insult they’ve thrown at each other, they were still brothers yet so very individual now. No longer were they one mind, one sword, now they were men in a unit who fought, yet not together, the perfect recipe for failure.

D’Artagnan stares at Athos’ lips, before taking the chance to give them a quick peck. “The problem is, it isn’t late, so I stand victorious in this argument.”

Athos’ smile only widens, “So this was an argument?”

“I took it as a sign of confrontation.”

“Well, surely d’Artagnan you must sit among the elite at the royal table if you believe this to be the passions of an argument.”

“Seems like a bore. Now shut up and kiss me back.” D’Artagnan prods successfully and Athos’ lips collided heavily with d’Artagnan’s. The youngest of the pair takes the opportunity to switch positions, hips on top of Athos’ pelvis and he resists the urge to hump the bulge that now quickly arises beneath him, waiting for Athos to take the initiative. D’Artagnan released a sign of contentment when Athos cups the mounds of his ass against his enflamed manhood.

Ever since they’ve arrived back from the front lines, both were insatiable. Exactly when they entered Athos’ old quarters, because Athos could never imagine having sex in the same bed that their minister of war once slept in, they’ve been taking their long break leisurely in the throes of passion, taking pause from their embrace only for food, drink, to bathe and to piss. Athos had ordered that if there was no emergency he wanted no visitors till he entered the garrison when his week was over. Unfortunately, today was their last day. It will surely be missed.

\-----

Athos enters the garrison with d’Artagnan in tow around close to noon, both laughing as d’Artagnan treats himself to a pastry bought with Athos’ coin on the road there. Their festive mood quickly dies down when Treville is seen sitting on the steps to Athos’ office, a guarded look encompassing the hard lines of his face, mostly due to the stress of being under the thumb of an angry King. Athos stands to attention, rolling the apple in his hands on mere nerve for the incoming information that Treville might have bubbling inside him.

Porthos and Aramis are there too, standing beside Treville before they disperse.

“What is the cause for concern, Minister?” Athos tips his hat in greeting to his old friend and Treville nods in acknowledgement of the greeting before standing. “I hope I had not kept you waiting long.”

“Not at all Captain, it’s not you I’m furious at, rather it’s the situation. Do you remember the Comte de la Pierre by any chance, from the large town of Frenon, where they had that horrible outbreak of pig’s disease?”

“Of course, it’s not easy to forget having to haul a few hundred pigs from Frenon to the incinerator. Was there another surge?” Athos’ nails begin to dig into the skin of the apple in dread, silently hoping that there wasn’t something deeper to the feeling that had seemingly gone to pass this morning.

“Something worse actually, his son, Abélard, has decided to become a musketeer. Or demands it, in simpler terms. He came riding all the way from Frenon to the King with a letter from his father, he hoped for a commission and the King just gave it to him in haste. I only came here to tell you that you have a new, and somewhat very passionate, musketeer on your hands.” Treville pats his shoulder in what Athos interprets as sympathy.

“Do you happen to know why, by any chance? Why would a former red guard be okay with his son becoming a Musketeer?” Athos questions, finding the situation to be rather amusing.

“In his letter, he stated he holds no influence over his son’s decision, he hoped that out of the graciousness of the King’s heart, and the fact that he holds control over almost every textile factory in France, that he granted him a commission. Even for how head-strong his son seems to be, it would still be viewed as a dishonor to his family legacy to switch ties, but it doesn’t matter now.” Treville shrugs, and he spars a full glimpse at the garrison, nodding to himself as he inspects, biting his lip in contemplation. “All I can say now is, don’t stress too much. He’ll lose his edge soon when he realizes the difficulty of his decision. He’s also in your office.”

When Treville takes his leave, d’Artagnan comes walking curiously up beside Athos, meekly afraid of what it is that Treville spoke with him. “What did Treville say?”

“Abélard, Comte de la Pierre’s son, is here.”

D’Artagnan laughs out of relief, taking another bite of his pastry as he looks towards the door of Athos’ office. “For what?”

“Do you promise not to get to angry?” Athos knows how hard d’Artagnan fought to get here, and it would only reopen a healed wound to tell him a bratty, spoiled child was able to waltz up to the King and be thrown a commission at his feet.

“Just tell me.” D’Artagnan signs.

“He’s a Musketeer, the King granted him a commission this morning.” Athos turns his eyes slightly away to avoid the sheer despair in his lover’s eyes.

“A kid, who barely even knows how to hold a proper sword, nonetheless kill a man, got to a commission before-“

“I know, d’Artagnan. But we’ll handle it, Abélard de la Pierre will come to understand the weight of becoming a true musketeer. Your struggle, mine, and many others will not be taken for granted.” Athos brings a hand to grip d’Artagnan’s shoulder, for reassurance that he’ll see to it that everything turns out as it should.

Yet it doesn’t stop that bubble of dread that keeps bubbling inside of Athos’ heart, and no matter how much he tries to dismiss, it seems to grow stronger as his feet lead him nearer to that room upstairs.


	2. Dueling

Athos stepped over the threshold to enter his workspace, being hit abruptly with the overwhelming scent of old papers and drying ink, yet the prominent, heavy blanket in the air that was due to growing dust clots shot a wave of nostalgia in a place where none was welcomed. The wood was rotting in some places and the windows weren’t as pristine as they used to be.

Athos decided before he left to keep the same old worn-out rug Treville had in front of the door, in remembrance of the strength that Treville once instilled into each and every recruit that stood on that very piece of fabric. The first day he stumbled onto the garrison, he tripped on that rug, still young and afraid of the rejection from the famous Captain Jean-Armand du Peyrer. It still held some of the red on its edges, though that will soon fade to the large grey and black spot that will soon consume it.

Its reminder gives Athos the confidence to think like Treville, to continue his legacy. The reputation of the garrison rested on his command. It was almost like switching gears, from leading ground troops against the Spanish to leading the new generation of Musketeers into a more conflicted Paris then when the Cardinal was beside the King. The responsibility was more than Treville had expressed.

Turning the corner, he can already see two well-polished boots relaxed upon his desk. “Abélard?” Athos calls out, hoping for the boy to show his face before he had the time to snap. Already, this spoiled man-child had outright disregard for his own captain’s property, and stepping into full view of the office space, did Athos realize that Abélard was also sitting in his chair.

The Celtic features in Abélard’s features were dominant, from his long blonde hair and wide cheekbones to his large feet. He has growing stubble, surely from the long absence of a good shaving tool while on the road to Paris, which made him look older. He also must have been a giant, both his parents stood at a rather intimidating height. But from the rippling strength that seemed to be flowing beneath his shirt, Athos can see he clearly was no longer a lanky teenager, he’s become a man. So he’ll be treated as such.

“Rise!” Athos barks and Abélard stands slowly but surely, seeing full well that he towers over Athos by at least a foot, snickering when he walks around Athos to sit in the proper chair. “I don’t care which name is attached to worth or what old money that you’ve inherited, you do not show disrespect to your commanding officer. The King may have granted you a commission, but that only places you into my hands. The King cannot protect you here, Abélard.” Athos takes a bite of his apple as he sits, the chair uncomfortably warmth beneath him.

“I don’t need the King’s protection, my feet were just so weary from a long journey home.” Abélard responds, clearly not taking Athos’ tone seriously.

“Unless you were the horse I don’t see how you would have any permission to settle yourself into my office as if these were your own quarters.” Athos chides, keeping his usual demeanor cool and steady. He will have to have patience in order to gain corporation. Abélard’s smug smirk disappears at Athos’ miffed rhetoric. “Now tell me, what is your purpose here?”

“Isn’t this where all men go to become part of the King’s elite army of men? I only wish to indulge in the honor to fight for my King, captain.” Abélard stresses the word captain and Athos lets it pass.

“Not just anyone waltz’s into the garrison expecting the King to be obligated to grant them a position into the Musketeers-“

“Well he seemed to be more than gracious in letting me prove my worth.” Abélard begins to tap his fingers against the wood of the chair’s armrest. In Abélard’s disinterest, he was starting to become the epitome of his dissatisfaction, his blue, ice-like eyes were settling a deep hatred in his gut.

“Advantage and blackmail can tend to do that for some people fortunate enough to have it.”

“I don’t do flaunting, don’t make it seem as if you do more than die for a man that tells you to upon his command.” Athos bites the inside of his cheek, to prevent saying something he’ll regret.

“Then why not follow your family’s reputation and join the Red Guard, if you hold such a low opinion on us and our duties?”

Abélard exposes his pearly white teeth when he smiles this time, as if he was telling himself a personal joke. “I don’t fancy the helmets.” Athos sets his apple aside when Abelard lets out a cackle of a laugh, his eyes following Athos’ movements when he arises.

“Let’s step outside for a moment, I wish to see what you’re truly capable of.” Athos doesn’t cast a second glance at Abélard, expecting him to trail behind him to the training pit.

“Captain.” Abelard sings, before asking, “May I choose who I get to fight?”

“No.”  Athos scoffs, “Porthos!”

Upon seeing Porthos enter from the stables, he’s wiping his hands on a rag whilst his heavy sword beats against his leg. Abélard grips the banister, trying to disguise his nerves beneath his cocky demeanor.  “Oh captain, give a new Musketeer the benefit of the doubt.”

“What’s the hesitation? There will be bigger men then you or Porthos that you’ll have to fight, and as your commander I order you to have a duel with who I choose.”

Porthos lets out a booming laugh, goading on Abélard. “It’s alright if you’re too afraid to face me, I’m much scarier than I look!”

“I’m not afraid to fight anyone!” Abélard hisses. D’Artagnan then chooses that moment to appear beneath the roofs of the kitchens, a stormy expression accompanied his face as he tries to remember the same Abélard from a few years back, a kid who was short and cubby to this beast that stood as a giant beside Athos.

Athos doesn’t fail to notice that Abélard’s eyes are frantically glancing along the courtyard, till he finds his prize in d’Artagnan. “Why don’t I fight someone like him?” He points to where d’Artagnan stands, his stance unmoving.

Athos looks at d’Artagnan for a mere moment, his throat suddenly closing up as his heart almost stops in his chest. If it were any other, perhaps Athos would have allowed it, but it would hit too close to home to let d’Artagnan of all people go against this man, yet there was nothing exactly stopping him. It isn’t that d’Artagnan wasn’t a formidable opponent, but the risk was too high for Athos to take. Who knew how either would react, and out of Abélard complete disregard for authority, who knows if he’ll take it a step too far?

Athos endows him the option to be a coward that he can clearly see he was behind his strong man image, “Either you fight Porthos or go back to your father in Frenon.”

But d’Artagnan decides to completly push his word aside, shoving himself off the pillar to march into the center of the pit, taking out his sword and twirling it in a rather flamboyant fashion to tense his muscles. “I’ll challenge him.”

Athos can see why Abélard would rush to fight a man like d’Artagnan, who was slim but still had the boyish look of innocence adorning him from his countenance to his walk, still seeming like a recruit fresh from Gascony. The war failed to toughen up his frame, and perhaps into an old age, he’ll still have the vibrant appeal of youth, it was just who he was. Abélard thought he could par himself against someone young and passionate, and while both were true, Athos believes Abélard is like most men who encounter d’Artagnan in a duel. They underestimated him, but that would only be to d’Artagnan’s advantage.

Athos doesn’t have it in him to deny his lover, and so whilst he gives d’Artagnan a long, hard stare, hoping for him to let his brief anger dwindle, d’Artagnan stares defiantly right through him. Eventually he steps back for Abélard to have a full access to the stairs, Abélard purposely bumping shoulders with him as he passes. Porthos growls at Abélard when he strides in front to face d’Artagnan.

“My sword is with my horse, you can’t fight an unarmed opponent.” Abélard smirks.

Porthos pulls out his own sword from its scabbard, handing it to Abélard as the garrison begins to fill with their fellow soldiers, talking amongst each other with interest. Abélard begins to weigh the sword, contemplating the design and the smooth handle as he slices through the air, trying to dance with it much like a blacksmith would with a fresh blade. He was definitely one for attention.

“Now, are you finished?” d’Artagnan goads while Abélard makes a show of himself twisting his vertebrae. Soon when the crowd starts to yell for the fight to begin, Abélard makes a move to pull his long hair back into a ponytail, causing Athos to roll his eyes.

“Begin or this is your last chance!” Athos barks.

Before the words fully leave from Athos’ tongue, Abélard is charging forth towards d’Artagnan with an unnatural speed, causing him to stumble when he brings his sword forward to prevent Abélard from impaling him. His quick fiery aims were aims to kill, rather than to cause minor injury.

He would strike from the left only to punch on the right just as hard, much similar to a man who relied on brute strength to stun his enemy. Each blow felt worse than the last, d’Artagnan was noticeable having a difficult time trying to deflect the aimless swings of the sword when Abélard tried throwing things to impair his sight. He huffed and wheezed as Abélard tried backing him into a corner, before aiming to kick at the crotch to then blindside him with a punch to the head, making d’Artagnan slam the side of face into the brick of the wall. He collapsed onto his knees, trying to clear his head of dizziness. Yet Abelard kicks him down, like he's not going to stop.

"The fight is finished!" Athos yells, quickly walking down the stairs to approach Abélard, who had d'Artagnan by the shirt as he plummets him with his fist. "Do you want to kill him?" 

The rage and fear that inflames Athos from the inside out lead to him unsheathing his sword as Abélard refuses to listen to him. He swipes his legs beneath Abélard, causing him to fall on his side and Athos points his sword's tip at his throat. "Are you mad?" Athos' face is twisted like a devil who knows he has the cusp of someone's soul at his disposal, rightly so, and his blue eyes are wide as he holds back the tempting burn of pushing the sword closer to Abélard's throat. Just one swipe would end it, unburden him. 

It brings his mentality back to the front lines, knowing death was near and the fact that Athos was helpless in preventing it from taking d'Artagnan, if he had fled his side or turned away for a moment's glance. d'Artagnan could have been forever removed from this earth, but Athos wouldn't let him slip on his watch, especially not in Paris, not in his garrison. 

Aramis walks from behind the crowd to assess the damage done to d’Artagnan’s bleeding face, yet suspecting nothing would hurt more than his pride.

“Have I proven myself to you, captain?” Athos can still detect the sardonic tone through Abélard panting, and he grins in his triumph.

"If I have to take your life because you are threat to my men, don't think I will be hesitant if the opportunity strikes again." The challenge in Athos' voice begins to channel true fear which shines in Abélard's eyes, his previous thinking that Athos would be a permissive leader is altered. He actually fears what he's capable of.  “Find a place to rest, your training begins in the morning.” Athos says.

Athos steps over Abelard as he places his sword back in its scabbard, refusing to look at d’Artagnan’s fire like stare burning holes into his back as he retreats back into his office.

\----

When Aramis is done stitching and wiping away the evidence of d’Artagnan’s defeat, he doesn’t follow after him nor give him any encouraging words when d’Artagnan marches out of the infirmary and quickly finds his horse to ride out of the garrison. Porthos was beside the door, arms crossed as he enters through the door that d’Artagnan left ajar. The sounds of a retreating horse is all that stands between Porthos and Aramis, as Aramis is placing his tools back into his pouch.

The awkward silence almost wraps around Aramis’ nerves, knowing where this confrontation will lead and the guilt never stops toppling him wave after wave. Of course, Porthos wouldn’t sympathize with him, with what his duty to God had lead him to do. He had to put his soul, his beliefs in front of everyone else for their sake and Porthos refused to understand that. This terrible week wasn’t enough to discourage Aramis from trying yet again to turn Porthos’ perspective. “I-“

“How is d’Artagnan?”

Aramis stops in mid-action from wiping the blood off his sewing needle, and casts his eyes downward to Porthos’ boots as the man stood there in all his glory. Untouchable, unmovable.

There were very minimal accounts of when the pair ever harbored anger for each other, it was almost fact that it just wasn’t possible for either of them to be at odds with one another, easily able to rectify the wrong between them with a few uttered apologizes and a few good deeds. Aramis doesn’t know how long this hatred for him has been brewing, if it were with his presence at the monastery or if it had been since the letters stopped coming, when Porthos stopped writing back. The question is how long it’ll last.

It would only startle him to hear if Porthos was already growing resentment for him when he announced that he would resign his commission. If all that distrust Porthos claimed there was between them surfaced from the receding glance of his figure among the autumn leaves and the long impeding road to war. Each men going off to their separate battle, for different reasons, for a different purpose, and neither could have followed. Porthos couldn’t stray from the life of a soldier, and Aramis couldn’t stray from God, plain and simple.

Yet Porthos can’t believe it could be so easy for Aramis to abandon his duty to the people of France and the King, but in reality, it was easy enough for Aramis to switch his armor, leather and guns to a robe and bible, but it wasn’t easy to quell his internal lust for violence, to protect, to serve. He can never possibly understand how difficult it truly was to stray from the only people he loved, to the save the ones that suffered because of him. He felt as if everyone’s fate rested on his shoulders and preventing himself from hurting anyone ever again seemed to be the only ethical solution. To hide.

Porthos thought he was the only one who knew suffering, yet he wouldn’t even begin to understand the hardship it took for Aramis to get here alone as well. He thought now they could have been strong together, but Porthos was taking every liberty he can to throw it all back in his face, like a petulant child.

“He’ll live to see another day.” Aramis tries to smile, to not forecast his misery onto Porthos, deciding to not be so selfish as to mark his pain as much greater than his. “How are you?”

“Fine.” Porthos mutters, his voice straining. “Didn’t know you cared.” He takes his leave with that, slamming the door behind him as he goes off into the courtyard. Leaving Aramis in the dark alone with his thoughts.

\----

When d’Artagnan rides back, it’s past dark and comrades are sitting amongst themselves, eating and drinking in sudden silence when d’Artagnan enters the garrison. They refuse to look at him and neither do they offer him a plate nor a seat. But after giving the stable boy the reins to his horse, he notices that the lamp in the captain’s office was still lit. Athos hadn’t left without him.

D’Artagnan walks through the dispersing group of Musketeers, taking it upon himself to ask Serge for a plate. Though even Serge, despite his slow wits, is hesitant with conversing with him, just passing him a small dish with cold rice and bread from the bottom of the pot. Maybe they’re doing it to respect his hurting pride or they’ve completely shunned him for losing to a son of a wealthy former red-guard.

So he sits by himself, near the fading light of a torch and the stone wall of the gates.

Even Brujon tries not to glance at him, so they don’t spark a conversation.

D’Artagnan sighs, trying to focus on filling his quickly disappearing appetite so he can ride on home, but this was until Abélard comes down the steps from the soldier’s quarters, creating a boisterous scene as he yawns and stretches. D’Artagnan makes a grimace in disgust when Abélard spits a big glob of phlegm on the side of the stairs, flipping aside his long hair behind his back.

“Ah, d’Artagnan!” Abélard calls out, taking the plate of food that Serge had quickly placed on the sill for him and Abélard makes a move toward him, deciding to pass all the other musketeers to take a seat, right beside d’Artagnan. “Just the man I wanted to see.” Abélard takes up a long leg of chicken into his hand, ripping a large bite of meat from the bone and proceeds to eat right in d’Artagnan’s ear.

“We could be friends, you and I.” He mentions, the sounds of his lips smacking together makes d’Artagnan want to vomit.

“Now why would I agree to do that?” d’Artagnan tries to scoot himself further left but Abélard just follows him as if he doesn’t notice d’Artagnan’s persistence to get away.

“Because I believe we’ll get along fine, well with your pretty face and all.” Abélard whispers, wrapping a strong arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders when the other Musketeers left begin to gather their things to head off to bed. “Don’t you agree to that?”

D’Artagnan’s nostrils flare, before he elbows Abélard in the stomach and slams his head against the wooden table. “I’m not a whore and you will not treat others as such.” He seethes. “I don’t even know where you’ve gathered the nerve to say that.”

“When I beat you in front of everyone like a little bitch and your captain had to come running to your aid.”

D’Artagnan pauses, his grip growing unintentionally tighter, causing Abélard to wince. “I won’t lose to you again.” With that, d’Artagnan quickly gathers his horse, leaving his unfinished plate and fleeing the garrison without so much as a second glance to Abélard, riding out into the night to Athos’ apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, is d'Artagnan so very wrong about that...


	3. My Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos is still unwilling to let go of the pain and Aramis digs himself a deeper grave. Athos has a mission for Abélard.

Athos enters his lodgings around midnight and when he hears d’Artagnan’s gentle snoring in the darkness of the room, he feels an euphoria of relief. Despite Abélard, d’Artagnan stayed, instead of disappearing into the jungles of Paris.

He approaches the bed with haste, falling onto his knees to seek out d’Artagnan’s hand on the pillow, firmly gripping it and begins to kiss each knuckle till d’Artagnan awakes. He can hear the effects of sleep slurring his name on his tongue, “Athos?”

“I never had the chance to ask you if you were alright.” Athos breathed against d’Artagnan’s fingers. “I also didn’t get the chance to say that I’m proud you didn’t let what happened today cloud your judgement.”

“You aren’t disappointed with me?” d’Artagnan asks with a meek voice, remembering clearly that when Athos walked away, he could have sworn that it was because of embarrassment. Athos didn’t stop to see him, to help him walk when he couldn’t see…he thought had angered him. D’Artagnan knows that he would be.

“No. Never. We can’t win all battles.” Athos reassures.

This leads d’Artagnan to a mulling silence, and it takes him almost too long to respond. “But I should have won this one.” Athos couldn’t imagine what must be running through his mind, everything happened so quickly. Abélard’s fighting style was similar to a wild animal, feral and desperate to survive, thrashing and clawing everywhere he saw flesh, it was severely unanticipated. Even Athos could admit that it took him by surprise, nonetheless the whole garrison.

“It was a shock to everyone, who knows if Porthos would have fared any better. The men are just a bit sore that someone like Abélard was able to catch you off-guard. He will never best you again because he’s a man that relies on tricks alone. Someone like him can win a few battles but they’ll never win the war. He’s doesn’t fight with honor.”

D’Artagnan lays still, focusing on Athos’ breathing, its sound was rather soothing to his conscious. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Wherever you are, I’ll always be there.” Athos vows, and d’Artagnan closes in, finding Athos’ lips in the dark. It feels magnetic, sensual, and it sends goosebumps and shivers down his spine. In this long kiss, it emits the caring cultivation of years upon years that both sacrificed to get to this intimate moment. This close attention to detail, the soft caress of hands on skin, love was always felt first and then the rest of what neither could speak out loud.

Everyone knew that Athos would gladly lay his life down for d’Artagnan, he would take a bullet, cannon fire, a blade to the gut for him. Even d’Artagnan knew. But these small, bittersweet moments tell what Athos keeps behind the curtain, what he wouldn’t express outside the safety of their bed. Words were never the way Athos dedicated and proclaimed his love for him; he admitted that words were never easy for him express what he truly felt because there weren't any in the french language strong enough. And such an overwhelming, passionate emotion like love, usually left Athos speechless when it counted most.

So he never takes a kiss, a touch, a smile, or a glance for granted. In this kiss, Athos says I love you and d’Artagnan says, he knows.

\----

“That’s a good boy Damascus.” Aramis pats the large stallion on his nose, then tracing backwards to gently massaging his fingers on his neck as he brings the reins forward. Damascus snorts and tries to resist the pull at the sight of his open stable gate, but Aramis’ precious touch persuades him to walk closer and closer into his palm.

Aramis doesn’t notice the tall silhouette coming forth from around the water pumps yet he assumes the footsteps are just Jacques’, the stable boy, as he secures Damascus in his stall. Damascus starts fighting to turn his head to look at the incomer and this is when Aramis sees that it’s Porthos, coming with a hay bale in tow, his uniform abandoned for a very causal red shirt, v-lined, showing off a very shiny portion of skin on his chest. From where he stood he can see the beginnings of his breast line, glistening in the afternoon sun.

He was trying to untangle the tight knot of rope that held the bale together, while Perrin, Porthos’ horse, waited with anticipation to be rubbed down. Aramis tried not to make noise, using much effort to hide himself behind Damascus in order to avoid a confrontation. But his curiosity got the better of him.

Porthos’ hair used be neatly shaped, close to his head, every curl seeming to be in perfect position, not one strand out of place. Even his beard used to be properly trimmed, smooth. These were things Aramis appreciated, a well-groomed man, but since he came back, he’s only been focused on what Porthos felt on the inside meanwhile believing all the little lies he would say to everyone. He never had the chance to truly look at him, how his hair grew wildly past his nape, his eyes bloodshot as if he hadn’t been getting any sleep, the grime seeming to cake over his skin in layers, and how his beard is much thicker, making his face seem fuller yet not in a healthy glow. Porthos has thrown himself onto every small task that needed to be done around the Garrison, refusing to rest and sometimes to eat, and if he wasn’t outside doing something that needed to be done, he was in the stables, doing practically anything in his solitude.

He was running away from his problems, away from Aramis. As far as he could distance himself in a small radius. Keeping himself occupied compensated being alone with his thoughts. It was starting to become clear.

He asked himself if he was the root of Porthos’ despair, the real reason why he avoided everything that he once enjoyed doing, which they both partook in together.

Aramis remembers when Porthos was just commissioned, he was already starting to overgrow his stubble and the way he nervously held the shaving blade to his neck, Aramis had feared that he would accidentally slice his jugular so he took it upon himself to style his beard until Porthos caught onto his technique. Porthos never had a father to teach him the simple things that came with becoming a man, no ever showed him how to deal with the emotions he felt. Aramis, who did not differ much from Porthos in age, was his teacher.

He used to be so willing, willing to listen, willing to learn, he was like clay in Aramis’ hands. He could have walked anywhere and Porthos would have followed. Hell and back.

He could have lead him astray, Porthos didn’t even want to touch a book dedicated to the so called "righteous man", neither would he have allowed himself to be spoon-fed what another man considered general morals, but Porthos listened. Porthos was there. Perhaps more for Aramis’ sake then his own. He could have stayed the person he was in the Court of Miracles, a boy who stole and didn’t have any honor to his name, even when the times got rough he chose Aramis, he chose to stay a Musketeer.

Yet Aramis didn’t choose him. This time.

And that was the biggest betrayal to Porthos’ enormous heart. **Ever**. When Aramis left him behind, he lost a best friend, a confidant, a lover, a teacher, the **_God_** in his eyes; despite being so irritably flawed. Aramis made his decision with such haste, such disregard to how Porthos would feel. Like it was nothing. But this was Porthos’ last time. The last time he’ll wear his heart on his sleeve.

Besides, Aramis was running too.

\----

“How is Abélard?” Treville asks, taking another sip of wine from his clay goblet. Athos was sitting intimately adjacent from him, staring at the dark, thick consistency of the wine in his cup. Contemplating.

“Trainable. He’s wild, but I’m not doubtful about taming his belligerent behavior.” Athos responds, setting down the goblet on his desk. It’s been since the beginning of his life on front lines that he’s refrained from partaking in drink. Even during a pyrrhic victory, he declined every opportunity to distance himself from the true matters at hand. To be a leader with so many lives on your hands, he believed it would an injustice and a total disrespect to them if he was impaired at any moment of the day, on the battlefield or not.

It’s been three days since d’Artagnan’s defeat and he’s ordered the other men to quit gossiping about it like idle old women. If he had so much heard a whisper of it, he would make sure that every single man in the regiment had something else to occupy themselves with. The perpetrators especially, would have the delightful job of cleaning out the latrines, which was more than a courtesy in Athos' opinion.

Athos demanded respect, which was paramount.

“I’m glad you hold such optimism, because I have a suggestion. Take it as words from a former captain to the next.” Treville grins, his eyes wrinkling at the edges.

“Of course, anything from you is dearly welcomed.” Athos responds.

“I have a letter from the King.” Treville sets down his goblet to reach inside his jacket folds, pulling out a small envelope with the King’s seal. Athos takes it and inspects the envelope closely. “It needs to be delivered to the Marquis of Troyes. It pertains to delayed taxes that have gone unpaid for several months. France is in dire need of money and the King has been keeping a keener eye on certain nobles who have been slacking as of late. It’s a simple mission for Abélard, not too risky, and if the Marquees refuses to hand over his dues, the King wants him arrested. He lives with a young son and his wife, Charlotte, so I beg for a peaceful resolution unless he starts resisting arrest.” Treville downs his goblet before sitting it back down. He stands, pulling his coat on the back of the chair with him.

“You may also want Abélard to be accompanied by someone with experience. There’s mischievous activity on the roads leading out of Paris these days, I don’t want to hear of anymore dead musketeers.”

“Of course.” Athos smiles, standing to help Treville to the door. When they halt on the doormat, Athos says with great appreciate, “Thank you Treville, really.”

The corners of Treville mouth perk up, patting Athos on the shoulder much like a proud father would when he wishes his son farewell. “Whenever you need me, I’m not far.”

\----

Abélard's excessive grunts in the pit start to infuriate d’Artagnan to the core. Despite Athos’ plea that d’Artagnan should “accommodate” to Abélard’s behavior, it’s been a very hard task alone to gather up all the willpower to prevent himself from punching Abélard in the mouth.

Not like he wasn’t trying, he let Abélard cut him in line for lunch (aka: he just didn’t say anything when he shoved him aside), he put Abélard’s horse in the stables when it started raining (aka: Abélard shoved the reins in his hands and expected him to do it for him anyway), he even let Abélard borrow his sword when his broke until d’Artagnan could find him a proper replacement (aka: Abélard called him a vulgar word instead of his actual name and demanded that he used d’Artagnan’s sword to continue his training.)

If it were any other man who told him to respect this animal, Abélard would be on his knees, defeat or not. D’Artagnan didn’t like being a doormat for Abélard's entertainment.

But the more distance he keeps from him the better. Creating a new shelf for the rifle supplies in order to better organize the bullets and gunpowder was a great innovative way to forget about Abélard’s existence, but it wasn’t working like d’Artagnan had planned. Yet Aramis and Brujon, who are standing against the pillar, all three of them talked softly among themselves; it is but a small positive in d’Artagnan’s current predicament. 

“d’Artagnan!” Abélard pants, and the Musketeer Reynard stops with his sword in midair when Abélard shouts. D’Artagnan abruptly stops his hammering on the post, but in his distraction, he accidentally bangs his finger with the mallet with an immediate yelp. He turns to glare at Abélard, who’s snickering through his pants. Aramis and Brujon are trying to hold back their anticipation, d’Artagnan and Abélard’s banter have become the highlights of their day.

“What?” He growls through his teeth.

“Fetch some water, I’m quickly dying of thirst!” He smiles and d’Artagnan wishes that he’ll hold true to his words and just drop dead.

“Get it yourself!” He retorts, rolling his eyes at Abélard’s profound laziness.

“You’re going to let a man who’s doing some real work get it himself? You should start pulling your own weight, rat.”

Oh yes, Abélard now refers to him as “rat”. Explanation: because he looks like one.

D’Artagnan trembles in trying to control his rage, “You’ve been here for less than a week Abélard and I’ve been here for almost six years…I’ve actually earned my place, what about you?” He says calmly, but just barely.

“Woah.” Brujon whispers to Aramis and Aramis just continues looking on smugly.

“d’Artagnan! I have a mission for you.” Athos yells from on top of the balcony and d’Artagnan looks up at him like a guardian angel. In his mind, he’s screaming thank you, because he'll actually have a break from this vile mistreatment but then whilst d’Artagnan is running for the stairs, Athos calls out, “And you too, Abélard.” Athos then walks back into his office, leaving a shell-shocked d’Artagnan at the bottom of the stairs.

No. This cannot be happening.

“Move aside, rat.” Abélard’s large hand grips d’Artagnan’s shoulder, pulling him out of his path to the stairs. d’Artagnan is going to be _alone_ with Abélard, for who knows how long. He wanted to curl up into a tight ball and die, literally.

D’Artagnan follows Abélard up the stairs, eyes focused on his lower back, deliberately trying to ignore Brujon and Aramis, who are laughing horribly loud across the courtyard.

\----

“Troyes is only five days a full trip, but I trust that the both of you will work as a unit. Abélard, I expect that you will take note and comply well with d’Artagnan’s leadership, he’s one of my best soldiers. Keep faith in that he knows what he’s dealing with.” D’Artagnan smiles to himself at Athos' compliment, which Athos takes heed of.

“But captain, may I at least ask if I could choose my own partner? Someone like Quintin, Porthos, or even Marrok would be better suited for the vicious roads of France.” Abélard asks, palms sweating behind his back.

“Why?” Athos knows he shouldn’t indulge on Abélard’s childish remarks, but perhaps if he were to understand the root of Abélard’s clear distain for d’Artagnan, perhaps he can find a way to mend it.

“I don’t need a boy, who can barely lift a bench or even grow a proper beard, to take care of. I can’t trust him to properly defend my back in a fight or give him the chance to turn his puny sword on me. I don’t particularly care for his ‘experience’ captain. I need someone I know I can trust, and he just isn’t it.”

Obviously a large blow dealt to D’Artagnan’s worth, as a soldier and to his honor, he is visibly taken with rage and before he could turn to argue with Abélard, Athos cuts in for him. “You believe d’Artagnan is inferior?” Athos states with a creeping coolness as he leans over his desk, closing the distance between him and Abélard, his weight on fists hold erect.

Abélard’s voice weakens, unable to respond, but with a meek, and raspy voice, he lets out a soft “Yes”.

“I don’t believe your beginning to understand what’s really going on here. D’Artagnan had already explained it well enough for you outside, as I had so happen to hear. His years out way your three days, so you therefore have no right to inform me or anyone else about d’Artagnan’s **_worth_**. You’ve never seen him on the front lines, you’ve haven’t seen his dedication to his comrades, and neither have you given him a chance to prove to you what he **_is_** capable of. He’s earned his keep, he’s earned the food that he eats, he’s earned the coin that’s his paid with, and he’s earned the respect among the others outside this room. You have not yet given _them_ a reason to put their **lives** on the line for you, risk their families lives for you. You may have the title Abélard, but you're far from the strength and courage it takes to wear it.” Athos explains, and he leans back to his heels. Point made.

Abélard huffs and turns to walk out, the door slamming behind him. Like a child indeed.

Athos looks at d’Artagnan, his crest fallen face as he stands in silence. “It’s true.” He softly says, for encouragement.

D’Artagnan’s eyes are hard and wet when he looks Athos directly in the eyes, his skin red with flushed heat and mouth twisted downwards. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Athos. Not anymore.” His words reach Athos in his core, yet he doesn’t show it, and he stands still as a pillar as d’Artagnan take his leave. Yet this door slam seems louder and harsher than the last.

\----

It’s way past dark when Aramis decides it’s time to head off to bed, though before he enters his room, he sees Porthos walk in from the front gates. He hadn’t seen him since the stables, but he doesn’t remember Porthos’ walking with a limp and nursing a bleeding arm.

Quickly, he runs from the front of his door to Porthos, who is trying to act like he doesn't notice Aramis approaching him. “Porthos! Are you alright?” Aramis questions, holding onto his shoulder to prevent him from walking straight into him.

“Get. Away.” He grunts, shoving Aramis to the side as he tries to continue on his path to his room.

“What happened?” Aramis tries again. But it’s hopeless. “Why don’t you talk to me anymore Porthos?”

This makes the larger man stop, standing in the same spot for a long time before he turns to face Aramis. He looks sicker, deranged, drunk as he glares at Aramis, yet it doesn’t deter him. “We used to be brothers! The others have accepted me back but why can’t you? I admitted and I still do, that I was wrong for leaving. I should have been there, but I wasn’t. Accept it and move on please…you’re only destroying yourself.”

Porthos continues to glare, his voice sounds raspy, as if he’s been crying, “Don’t tell me to forgive.” He speaks, his teeth and jaw are tightly held together. “You were my everything, I gave up so much, lost many, to be there with you, for you. I stood by you, through all the good, bad and the worst times. Yet it took you a day in fear of your own morality to give me up so selfishly, it was too easy for you. You wrote meaningless letters to me while I was out fighting for our country, expecting that it would be enough. You chose your…God, over me.” Porthos spits. “Was it worth? Did he save you? Do you feel any fucking better about yourself?”

“Porthos…I-“

“Shut up! I died in those fields and you were gone, gone trying to be some shepherd priest while I needed you. You thought letters were enough to make it seem like you cared and that you didn’t just abandon your **_brothers_** , because you tried to hide from what stood behind you-“

“I had to protect the people that were vulnerable because of my thoughtless actions-“

“I don’t care anymore, Aramis. I’ve finished caring a long time ago.”

Aramis soaks in the image of Porthos, from his feet to his eyes,  and he does’t look like he stopped hurting over him. “You don’t look finished to me.”

Porthos frowns, and maybe Aramis can see a gleam of light through that tough shell of an exterior breaking, maybe he can see that little bit of heart and passion left in his eyes. The old Porthos.

“I don’t love you anymore. Now just let me grieve.” And Porthos walks away, heading back to the stables, leaving Aramis in affliction if he should follow or leave Porthos in the shambles of his fragility. But he chooses to go upstairs, to light a candle and to sit at the small table that stayed tucked away into the corner. There resting, is a small figurine of the Virgin Mary, holding the baby Jesus in her arms.

Aramis doesn’t pray, he can’t stomach the thought. Instead he asks God for the answers to his unsolvable questions, how to heal Porthos’ internal wounds, inflicted or dealt by him. In the solitude of the candle fire, the dark, his thoughts, and God, Aramis hears nothing.

 


	4. Fear of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Answers that have been hiding come to light...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for taking so freaking long, I literally had this chapter sitting on my computer for so long now it's kinda sad. I wasn't sure how it was going to be interpreted, because I wrote it without properly searching for accuracy on a few elements that are vital in continuation of each character's characterization. I wanted it to be raw but at the same time, not too unrealistic. It may seem over the top but I really needed over the top in order to break something everyone thought would intangible...Abélard's egocentrism.
> 
> Unfortunately, in my opinion, this is the worst chapter I probably will write in terms of realization. Maybe I'm overreacting because I usually do that sort of thing but I apologize in advance if that makes you want to throw daggers at me...but hey, at least this one's 15 pages long.
> 
> Enjoy!

D’Artagnan had enough sensibility to come home after his sudden outburst later that night. Athos, though worried, had fallen asleep rather quickly the moment his head hit the flat pillow. It felt strange to feel his bedside empty and cold, without d’Artagnan’s constant heat on his chest, and falling slowly asleep to the soft rhythm of d’Artagnan’s breath. Ever since the frontlines, life in general wasn’t properly lived if d’Artagnan didn’t take his place by his side and tonight just soaked in the thought Athos always knew was there.

He’s grown terribly attached, so attached he worried about his own sanity very frequently when in times of distress. D’Artagnan was his concrete foundation, and it just became so easy to fall into defense when his partner was threatened (because if d’Artagnan was threatened then the perpetrator threatened him as well). D’Artagnan couldn’t just fault him for Athos wanting him to be as safe and comfortably happy as Athos in his own power could achieve for him.

Yet, Athos could admit it was understandable for d’Artagnan to be angry with him for hogging the reins too much when the time came for d’Artagnan to prove himself. Always afraid for him to make the wrong decision at the wrong time. But d’Artagnan could live his life just fine without his interference when the waters grew troublesome. He faced the possibility of driving him away rather than his intention of keeping him close.

When d’Artagnan enters the small living space, he sheds his clothes in a mindless manner, its become habitual at this point. Purposely he throws his clothes to the ground untidily, knowing it would get on Athos’ nerves in the morning, he leads his tired legs to the bed, climbing in beside Athos’ back. Immediately Athos notices the arrangement, consciously grabbing d’Artagnan’s arm and gently nudging d’Artagnan to take his place by the wall. D’Artagnan obliges, climbing over him but then he’s suddenly engulfed in Athos' embrace, chest to chest.

He can feel Athos’ breath dancing along the sensitive skin of his forehead, d’Artagnan’s eyes in direct line with his Adam’s apple. This again was another old habit.

Anytime in the frontlines were the men susceptible to an ambush, a very dirty tactic often tried by the Spanish for early victory against them when battles were growing extremely expensive and seemingly never-ending. Athos never liked to feel cornered in the first place, but ever since d’Artagnan woke on the far end of their tent, with a dagger near his throat; Athos always wanted to be positioned in front, considering he was the lightest sleeper and realistically it was easier for him to creep in after long meetings with the general when the candles were way past lit.

It was just another ‘valid’ reason to keep d’Artagnan safe, by putting himself in the middle before d’Artagnan could even realize there was a threat.

He sighed, glancing up towards Athos’ ashen face, the dark shadows beneath his eyes from the lack of sleep made him look ghostly. This compels d’Artagnan to bring his fingers up to caress those dark circles, empathy and sadness pouring from him like waves.

He knows that it must have been impossible for him to get any proper rest or an hour of undisturbed silence to himself ever since Treville appointed him Captain. Of course, with such a high reputation at stake to keep afloat, they all had a rough tumble with pressure; yet Athos had handled it all so well, a little too well in d’Artagnan’s opinion. No matter how many times he told Athos to confide in him with his troubles, that he can help shoulder the weight, he can clearly see in the gleam of Athos’ eyes that he doesn’t mean it. He’ll always shrug it off, demoting what was most important to him and his health in order to set his priorities straight for his men, d’Artagnan, France, and his duty to the King to succeed as a whole. Because that was just a purely Athos thing to do.

This all just overbearingly throws more futile guilt in a direct hit towards his ability in loving Athos; as he sees Athos falling apart right beside him, d’Artagnan is at an entire loss on what to do in order to help him become **himself** again. It's not the sex, or the hushed poetics of devotion that could sate this drift between them. Their dynamic has become a routine of pushing and pulling and the responsibility must be more strain than comfort for Athos' stress. He could try harder, yet he didn’t want to be the only outlet that Athos had underneath his belt, but he wanted to be there for him for all things.

But there were so much outside of the young Gascon’s control and he worries that if something doesn’t change, he could lose him. D’Artagnan couldn’t fight all the demons alone if Athos refused to work with him but like most nightmares, they were going to evolve. Perhaps they were still in the continuation of one they thought they left behind.

Soon enough, d’Artagnan’s eyes begin to grow heavy, and he falls asleep, but not before pecking Athos’ chapping lips, whispering an apology against them before he’s plunged into the darkness of bad memories and very little good thoughts.

**~*~*~*~*~**

Athos is monitoring the morning by the kitchens, watching through all the steam coming from the pots the men running about doing their stretches, dueling, and cleaning weapons. Finding jobs to do to keep busy on an early December morning. From where he stood, he could see d’Artagnan packing for his trip with Abélard and securing his bag to the saddle. Abélard himself, was beside d’Artagnan, anger clearly present on his sharp features as he did the same.

Needless to say, this was a comfortable beginning. Athos was hoping that both men will be able to make amends as a start to becoming comrades instead of enemies. It was short notice, but the faster Abélard learned to adapt, the less concern Athos had towards any impending threat to his men’s safety. Besides, he needed to be reprimanded and schooled as well.

Men are starting to gather in lines to the pots and this is when Athos spots a sickly looking Porthos emerge from the stables, dressed in dirty breeches and a bloody spotted shirt. His arm is expertly wrapped in gauze and he’s almost barefoot, as one of his feet is dressed to cover it from the harsh elements of the ground. Athos moves forward towards him, when he sees the larger man begin to sway as he walks, the effects of his hangover are all too clear to the others in the courtyard, some looking at the decorated musketeer with displeasure.

“Porthos, you’re not well.” Athos comments, grabbing Porthos by the bicep so he can help guide his friend to bed. But Porthos proves defiant, pushing against Athos in order to scurry away from his touch.

“I don’t need your help…I don’t need anyone’s help.” He growls before coughing and falling to his knees, his weakened frame curling on the ground to find stability in his haze of confusion.

Brave men step forward to help their comrade, looking at Athos for confirmation to touch Porthos. Though the sight of them through Porthos’ tunnel-like vision has him gasping, as in reality, these are men who Porthos has ran with into battle, but to him, they’re the silhouettes of menacing, grotesque figures. Their arms, dressed in spikes and twisted to the bone, their teeth are enlarged, gnashing for him, hollering, screaming. The voices around him all seem to be shouting in unison, his name. They want him, they want to destroy him, and they want vengeance. All the men, women, and children he’s killed, they’re after him, he concludes. And he can’t escape them, no matter what he does.

His head begins to throb, a sharp pain pulsing at the front of his skull, and he turns himself over on his front. He wants to crawl away, protect himself, as these figures begin pointing at him. Accusing him. Marking him. “Make the pain stop. Make them stop.” He mutters to himself, his whispering becoming frantic chatter as he drags his stubby, bitten nails along his skull. He begins banging his head harshly against the stones, in hopes for the visions to flee. But to everyone else, Porthos is close to cracking his skull open.

“Secure him!” Athos shouts in panic. They’re diving to grab Porthos, struggling to place him on his knees as Porthos thrashes with inhuman strength to ultimately kill himself. Others look with shock and some with fear that the man has turned mad. Abélard looks at the scene with confliction, watching the blood travel down the ferocious musketeer’s forehead to the nape of his neck and the collar of his shirt with undistinguished fascination.

“D’Artagnan fetch a physician!” Athos orders, when he sees d’Artagnan approaching to aid him and the six men desperately attempting to still Porthos.

D’Artagnan nods, his long legs stretching as he runs out of the courtyard and past Aramis, whose expression is clouded, like a man lost. He doesn’t want to stomach the thought but Aramis had seen the signs, the strange things stress and guilt can do a man. But he’s never imagined Porthos, such a hard but yet kind soul, to be subjected to the mad disease at such a degree. Of course, it may happen to every soldier, to accept all that death lightly is not capable by most men but Porthos? It never crossed his mind.

Porthos is in hysterics, thrashing, kicking a man in the knee in order to break free. Aramis doesn’t want to move, knowing he couldn’t make the situation better but he feels like an ass just standing and spectating. Porthos hated him. Hell, in this state he could kill him.

Though the petrified face of a man who was begging for relief tore at him inside, Porthos’ grunts turning into extreme heaving as he realize he was trapped, his eyes wide and red yet dry of tears.

Aramis walks over, yet Athos tells him to stay away, he ignores every sign, watching Porthos’ eyes stare openly at his feet, his head moving violently side to side to subside the pain.

When Aramis kneels so he’s leveled with Porthos, Porthos finally looks up at him, and the agony of a man seeking aid is practically oozing from the black stare in his eyes. He says something that Aramis would never think Porthos would plea since he’s come back. “Aramis, save me!” His eyes crinkle and with one last shove of strength he has left, he breaks free from the grasps of the other men and he crumbles onto Aramis, who supports him. Infinitely.

His strong arms and chest are weak in Aramis’ hold and it’s like Aramis is cradling a child. Right now, Porthos is at his worst. Porthos refuses to acknowledge his want to make amends, he wants to make Aramis his enemy. But now, Aramis feels like he has the power in Porthos’ tangibility. Porthos ultimately gave him two options. He could break him, letting that child-like innocence that relied on this cushion of stability that may still reside in Aramis die like he thought Porthos wanted; destroying the man he loved and who he once thought loved him and could still love him, and let him shatter to pieces…or he could **_save_ ** him. For the sake of Porthos’ friendship to him, fighting against all the scarred hate that Porthos has embedded and harnessed within him during the years they’ve been apart for Aramis and the world in order to bring the man who everyone recognized, who laughed as passionately as he fought and stood as loyal as he loved.

Aramis could try to bring back the heart lost and forgotten for Porthos’ sake, show him that the war didn’t have to take him back; that maybe in their similar experiences, Aramis could heal Porthos’ pain and trauma.

From one former broken soldier to another now in the same hole...Aramis wouldn’t let him down again.

**~*~*~*~*~**

“It’s alright d’Artagnan. Aramis and I can hold the fort just fine.” Athos reassures a worried d’Artagnan. The younger man was pacing back and forth outside of Porthos’ door, and Athos was growing a bit dizzy watching him make a dent in the wood. “You and Abélard have a mission-“

“Must you keep reminding me?” d’Artagnan stops and retorts, deciding to sit down by the railings of the stairwell beside Athos. Both men continued to stare at the worn door, listening for any change from beyond that piece of wood, blocking the two musketeers from their friend inside. “I still don’t know why you chose me, Abélard refuses to listen my command.”

Athos signs, “I thought we discussed this.”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that he would rather see me dead than alive.”

Athos was usually a cool-headed creature, in all aspects of the word. More so, he wouldn't deliberately set up something he knew would dissolve into disaster. D’Artagnan just had to trust his judgment.

“That’s exactly the reason why I chose you above all the other men. Abélard and you need to find common ground. We already have to figure out how to help Porthos, so I need this rift between the both of you to end. Period.” Athos explains. “Just…try to be his friend. He left everything he knew to come to Paris to start a new life. Instead of just throwing him out, I’m trying to give him a chance. Will you help me on this?” Athos turns his head towards d’Artagnan, watching him for any indication that he wasn't alone on this. Athos didn’t like to play the enforcing commander when it came to someone’s displeasure, but this was minor, and it may reap more benefits than naught.

D’Artagnan hates it when he’s right.

“Fine. Whatever.” He rolls eyes. Athos therefore pats him on his knee in gratitude.

As soon as this happens, Porthos’ door opens revealing the physician and Aramis behind him. Both d’Artagnan and Athos stand at attention, d’Artagnan reeling with questions. “Is Porthos okay?”

“For now yes. His wounds are not severe, but his mind surely is conflicted. Some eucalyptus and chamomile may help with sleep yet perhaps some pleasant distractions can help with the trauma medicine can’t heal.” The old doctor advises, before taking his leave.

“You should go too d’Artagnan, you’re wasting daylight.” Athos recommends, slightly confused as to why Aramis glowers at him from the doorway.

“Then I guess I’ll see you when I come back?” d’Artagnan asks, noticing a shift in the air. Athos nods in response. Soon enough, d’Artagnan is on his way to the courtyard, briefly stopping to speak with Abélard from what Athos can see.

“What’s wrong Aramis?” Athos addresses, but doesn’t say anything towards the insistent pulling grip when Aramis grabs his shoulder and pushes him inside Porthos’ room.

If Athos didn’t know any better, he would have thought Porthos dead by the way he lays on his bed, the smoke from the incense twirling in the air, his body pale and forsaken, his arms stiff by his sides, and the almost nonexistent movement of his bare chest. There was some green heap on the center of his abdomen, for reasons Athos didn't know.

“Porthos was under your command, correct?” Aramis crosses his arms, glaring at the captain in what seems to be an act of accusation.

“We were led by several generals, Porthos just happened to be in my troop. If you think I’m responsible for any of this, then you’re surely mistaken. I would never lead Porthos knowingly into madness.” Athos halts when Aramis grabs the front of his coat, shaking him as he spoke.

“Then who, as Porthos’ brother, was supposed to watch over him?” Aramis hisses. This scene was all too familiar.

“I tried my best with everyone.”

“Well your best wasn’t good enough.”

Perhaps Aramis wouldn’t be able to understand the mountain of accountabilities he was in charge of even if he were to bleed it all out in the open to him. Nothing was in deliberation, Athos loved Porthos, but he couldn’t stop a war every time something went wrong with a soldier. Porthos could have always come up to him personally if he needed some release. But Athos couldn’t give himself the time to keep an eye out for every detail when other things called for his attention.

“We all suffered much Aramis, I’m just thankful that I was able to see this many out alive. With some incompetent men who hold too much power they don't know how to control, You know just as well as do when I say that.” Athos tries to reason, because reasoning is all he had left in his power to do. He may not know everything Porthos went through when he wasn’t around, but it wasn't like the carnage didn’t reach all of them in some way or form. “Porthos was skeptical about our role in this war after the first year on the field. I couldn’t explain when questions were asked, because I had no answers. We scavenged blindly for our lives and that’s all I know. While Paris and France suffered, we bleed for them. We had to do some irredeemable things in order to get this far over Spain and it still isn’t enough to see who will be victorious. I didn’t mean for this to get so bad Aramis, you can at least believe me on that.”

Aramis’ grips loosens, till his hand slowly go back to his sides. He didn’t want to fight, but he needed someone to blame. They were just chess pieces on an enormous chess board, King Phillip and King Louis were the competitors and their lives were the expendables. The cold hard truth was indeed hard to bare, and nothing will justify war and its unfairness. War does more than destroy lives, it destroys humanity. Suddenly inhumane things become acceptable and it then corrupts society. In laymen terms, it also destroyed their brotherhood.

The four of them tried to keep each other safe for how many years and for what? To amount to this?

Well…whatever this was, Aramis didn’t know. An estranged captain, a passionate Gascon, a mentally broken soldier, and a guilty, pseudo-religious sharpshooter to speak for it.

This was what was left of the inseparables, and Aramis couldn’t help but feel cheated.

**~*~*~*~*~**

As Paris seems to slowly disappear behind them, d’Artagnan realizes in a fleeting moment that he hasn’t heard a word from Abélard since earlier in the afternoon; not even a vulgar utterance seemed to surpass his lips in transit this morning whilst packing for the trip to Troyes. To say he was skeptical would be an understatement. Initially, he had thought this would be a moment of opportunity for the Celt, a window for him to unleash all the negative connotations he had towards d'Artagnan's simple crime: existing. He truly thought that Abélard would torment him and strangely enough, d’Artagnan was a tad bit disappointed. He would have enjoyed going full reign with no restrictions or peering eyes to hold him back.

But out of sheer curiosity, d’Artagnan glances back at the buffoon, watching as Abélard’s figure seemed too oversized compared to the young horse he was riding due to the height difference. Yet Abélard’s eyes were down-casted, bobbing with the steady steps of the young stallion.

Not like d’Artagnan was a doctor, he didn’t know the inner dynamics of the human mind like some physicians do. All he knew was that friends, wine, a horse, love, and adventure that may be inside of Paris or beyond war was all he needed to stay sane. For others, it wasn’t enough and he could understand that. Simplicity isn’t a feature suited for everyone, some people need change to keep life exciting, needed to buy things so they can cause simple people to rage over embroidered, overpriced mechanism; some people needed to know that others were below them so they can sleep easy at night, they need control in order function.

Porthos was never such a man, of course, he indulged like any sensible person would, yet he didn’t like being taken for granted, which is justifiable. Porthos thought by submitting to the will of corruption, he was being manipulated. Manipulated by Spain, France, the King, the code of chivalry, his purpose as a soldier, _Aramis_. To be ordered to round up of Spanish prisoners, women and children especially, and slit their tender throats like cattle was a form of manipulation. To take their humanity from them to make them fiercer soldiers who would treat death as child’s play.

The reason d’Artagnan knew this was because he heard the drunken speeches, the outspoken thoughts, and the delirium of stress taking over Porthos mind, infecting him with the truths of his own lies. His psyche couldn’t handle the catastrophe of evil, much like many others who had fled mid-action or died for this; and d’Artagnan thinks that Abélard is starting to understand that. He’s starting to understand the perils of what being a soldier truly means firsthand. In less than a week, Abélard is starting to see the true colors of war, distinguishing the truth by the the stories of valor and unraveling the consequences of his decisions.

“How are you holding up?” D’Artagnan decided it was time to be civil. He was going to wave the white flag of surrender.

Abélard doesn’t seem to acknowledge that d’Artagnan had spoken, more so directly at him, as the strong silence around them and constant sound of hooves clacking against the gravel morphed into a lulling song, drawing Abélard deeper into thought as they rode. Yet he sharply rises his head, looking straight ahead at d’Artagnan, who is looking back at him with mild interest.

“I’m well.” He responds, clutching the reins tighter in his sheer, pale grip. “I’m just concerned.”

D’Artagnan shrugs, “I didn’t know you and Porthos were close.”

“We’re not. I just can’t stop thinking that Porthos is causing a strain. He’s become a liability. He’s shaken everyone with his madness.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” D’Artagnan says, feeling a burning sensation starting to bubble at the pit of his stomach.

“You can’t say that you don’t agree. Porthos is not suitable to fight anymore.”

“I don’t agree with anything your saying-“

“He’s weak, his mind is feeble, and his only purpose is now disputable because he let himself go insane.”

“I apologize, but from what I remember, you told Athos that you wanted Porthos rather than me on this mission. Why are you saying this now?”

Abélard huffs, “I guess I judged him erroneously, my outrageous mistake. Like most black men, he’s incapable of doing his duty. He’s just walking around like a mutt who has lost his way to his master’s whip and ass. He’s lucky that the King doesn’t seem interested in controlling their vermin numbers and looking into a solution to find a proper place for beasts like him where their faults won’t tarnish the work of good, abled, proper Frenchmen.”

D’Artagnan keeps riding, silent throughout Abélard’s discriminating speech. Some of it hits home, knowing that Porthos clings to a heritage given and lost to him long before he was born. A heritage he knows nothing about but yet cursed and victimized with its false outward judgements. D’Artagnan’s mother was black, and familiar talk like this was never too far behind her when they were seen out and about in Gascony.

Abélard was encroaching on territory his puny mind couldn’t even begin to understand.

“Of course, you’ll say that behind his back. Like a coward.” D’Artagnan glares at the path ahead.

“I’d say it to his face, if only he was present.”

“Even if Porthos rode all the way from Paris to where we ride now, you wouldn’t say anything. Because you’re afraid of him.” D’Artagnan claims.

“How dare you declare such an accusation when I’ve already told you that I am not frightened like some sniffling babe?”

“Because you’re not under your father’s roof and protection in Frenon anymore Abélard, if you haven’t come to terms with that yet. You’re in the real world now. There’s no room for an ego as big as yours. We’ve tried to be civil with you, you’ve given Athos every reason to throw you out on your ass just on your disobedience and vulgarity alone. You call yourself proper, but I’ve met even richer, well-mannered men who would never stoop to the levels that you plunge in. You seem to view yourself like you’re on some unreachable pedestal, but you don’t act like a gentlemen. You’ve haven’t even been on a full mission yet and you’re acting like you know everything better than everyone else. Porthos has lived the struggles of being a soldier who knows the weight of protecting Paris, the country, and the innocents of war, take into account what he’s been through instead of trampling his image so you don’t end up like him or worse. If I didn’t know better, you’d be one of the first men down and among the bodies I’d throw upon the pile of corpses to be burned!”

“You’re just like him, delusional. As if fighting is such a difficult art that only a few can master. My father has trained me with the greatest in all of France **_and_** Europe. I’ve more experience than any of you fools, if only the Musketeers were filled in ranks with men more like me and what I’ve been through to gain my father’s approval, Spain’s empire would crumble. I’ve beaten you and many others in this regiment and it’s true, I’ve only been here for a few days but I’ve seen the ripples that are threatening to tear the King’s personal body of men apart! Perhaps if your insolent Captain would only listen instead of trying to preach meaningless words, we wouldn’t be having such problems that could end up killing us all.”

D’Artagnan’s nostrils flare as he turns to Abélard, his poor horse letting out a grunt of a sound to the forceful of d’Artagnan’s pull. “Don’t start your shit rants on Athos!” d’Artagnan sneers and Abélard is taken back, never having heard d’Artagnan cuss in vain. “You have no shame, you insult everyone when it suits you-“

D’Artagnan didn’t have time to duck when an arrow comes flying past him, grazing his cheek. As he holds his oozing cheek in pain, he shouts “We’re under attack!”

“You’ve distracted us, rat!” Abélard growls, turning his horse to go running into the nearby trees.

“We must stay together! Ugh!” d’Artagnan tries to call out, but Abélard disappears so fast through the trees. D’Artagnan sweeps his head to the side to see a small cavalry of men approach him, heavily armed. He had to find higher ground, fast.

D’Artagnan takes out his pistol, aiming it towards one of the men, but since they're equipped with arrows, they have a faster reload time than he with one bullet a minute. Fortunately, he’s able to take one of the five men down, but he was the smallest out of the group.

D’Artagnan utters a curse underneath his breath as he turns to ride, but behind him, he hears another arrow and a person shouting, which was most likely the leader, who orders that they spilt up. This means that if Abélard happened to be found, he’ll be left to fend for himself.

Well, obviously. Since he took off notably by himself without giving a damn if d’Artagnan died or not. Though if Abélard were to die in battle, his burden will be off their shoulders. But Athos won’t be happy if d’Artagnan knowingly let him die. Abélard was under his protection.

So d’Artagnan makes the split decision to ride after him, to only God knows where.

Soon enough, he can hear the harmonious clatter of horses behind him, quickly approaching. Despite the burning on his cheek and the blood slowly mixing with the dirt on his face, it was sliding slowly towards his lips. d’Artagnan ignores this to reach down and withdraw his second pistol, which he then takes aim when he leads his horse to an abrupt stop. Quickly, he finds his focus between the two men, choosing the one that is already aiming his crossbow in d’Artagnan’s direction. He fires, and one man falls, leaving one left on his horse and two others running through the forest.

D’Artagnan reaches for his musket ball and gun powder, trying to stay steady as his horse begins to fidget from the shock of the unanticipated loud noise coming from the pistol. Its instincts are telling it to run away, but d’Artagnan prays he’ll stay still just a while longer.

Unintentionally, d’Artagnan drops his metal rod to stuff the ball and gunpowder, and seeing as the robber seems to closing the distance between them fast enough, d’Artagnan jumps of his saddle, diving for the rod on the forest floor, pumping the rod through the opening of the pistol. Breathing heavily as he did his three lucky pumps, he feels as if the stomping is above his head when quickly kneels and aims with his elbow out, closing on eye as his aims at his moving target.

As soon as d’Artagnan pulls the trigger, does he register how close the distance was between them. The robber was only a few feet away from his horse directly stomping over him, the robber flying forward in front of d’Artagnan, gurgling in his own blood as he died.

D’Artagnan sits back, feeling the ache from the force of uncoordinated jumping and licked his lips, shaking away his nerves. Abélard with accusations caught him foolishly off guard.

Just when his mind had retracted back to finding Abélard, does d’Artagnan hear a gunshot echoing throughout the forest. This causes d’Artagnan to jump back on his horse, shouting an encouraging command for the horse to go faster, riding at increased speed than he normally would push his horse to go forward, but he was trying to pinpoint the noise through the confusion of the dense trees before he lost it.

Soon enough, d’Artagnan comes upon a fallen body, extremely worried that it may have been Abélard, but the mix matched clothing and strong colored patches in the sewing shows to d‘Artagnan that it was a bandit. Perhaps he wasn’t dead yet. D’Artagnan continues straight, following the path that the man was going to follow, encroaching upon a scene that springs him into action.

Abélard was fighting the most muscular of the quintuplet, which d’Artagnan presumes to be the leader who he heard previously barking orders for their heads. He had Abélard on the ground, slowly weakening to his sword. Abélard had looked so frightened, so panicked and terrified at the possibility of defeat that it seemed so foreign and strange upon his thick face. His blue eyes drawing wide, darting side to side in quick thought, throwing dirt, giving kicks, fervently waving his sword, gasping so hearty for breath that d’Artagnan almost pitied the arrogant fool. It was too comical to watch.

This only proved the notion that Abélard was not ready to be one of the King’s personal guards. He could barely take down one opponent at a time without accidentally gutting himself in the process. It was a shame, considering the boisterous talk he had belligerently agreed on as absolute fact earlier, he sure had a difficult time implementing his "skills" into action.

Eventually, when d’Artagnan has had enough of this spectacle, he steps forward yet unable to prevent Abélard’s assaulter with blade alone (because he had a chest plate of steel) to keep Abélard from death when he was so gloriously close to tasting it; stupidly, unthinkingly he reached his hands out to grip the blade’s metal, the sharpness cutting through the flesh of his hand like fresh butter.

Abélard looks on in fascination, seeing as d’Artagnan stood tall and strong as his savior, rescuing him from getting his head severed in such a brash gesture. D’Artagnan grunts when the robber shakes him off, pointing his rapier in his direction. But quickly d’Artagnan fell into motion, grabbing his sword in its guard. The two start to duel, yet d’Artagnan has him on his knees with his throat silt too quick for Abélard’s sight to behold. He was impressed, to say the least, gratified.

As the robber now lays dead, d’Artagnan’s sword teeters in his red, bleeding palm, the pain too striking for d’Artagnan to register the loud echo of his blood hitting the dry leaves beneath his boots. The wounds burned like cuts made from paper, dirt making the blood turn a dark brown. He couldn’t shift through his pane of racing thoughts delving from motion sickness fast enough to gain consciousness for the briefest of seconds as the blood seemed to pour in waves. He felt like he was far away, in a parallel view of his body, watching himself watching him watch the blood that coated his hands and the lower half of his pants, ever so slowly soaking into the ends of his sleeve.

He felt a hand at his back, telling him not to worry. D’Artagnan hadn’t expected it to be Abélard asking for the report on his wellbeing, but he asked, sounding like he was truly concerned. “d’Artagnan you can hear me? What can I do to help?”

D’Artagnan takes a swallow of spit down his dry quenching throat, but he utters for a bandage in Abélard’s pack. For a second, the man looks almost sick.

“It’s not with me…”

“What do you mean it’s not with you?” D’Artagnan growls through clenched teeth.

“My horse had fallen and I didn’t look back. I ran here. I don’t know where he is.”

D’Artagnan stares incredulously, “You ran and left your horse behind?”

“They had aimed arrows at me! I had to find better ground-“

“No longer than a few moments ago, you told me that you were trained by the best and you run like a coward in the face of danger?” d’Artagnan glares, his anger laboring his breath.

Abélard wanted to speak up, his mouth opened in respond but yet no sound is released past his lips. He was at a loss for words, surely. His gaze and whole demeanor now points downwards in depressive contortion that only belongs to men like Abélard, who are blatantly scolded like children whilst in the wrong. D’Artagnan puts his fist up, as if saying that he doesn’t want to hear another sarcastic remark in his defense of Abélard’s invisible valor.

“Come upon my horse and we shall find him together.”

**~*~*~*~*~**

They find Abélard’s horse around a mile from where he had fallen off. By this time, d’Artagnan has found a makeshift bandage for his hand from Abélard’s shirt, yet his hands still shake from the pain. He doesn’t exactly trust the oaf in handling their last resort of transportation.

But when they come upon the teenaged stallion, d’Artagnan immediately knows that they may have to bare sharing the saddle on Cluster.

The laying stallion panics, his breath turning into hysterical nays when they approach. Some of Abélard’s things are scattered on the forest floor and Abélard chooses to go for his discarded items rather than pay any attention towards the soldier on the ground. His ankle bones were peeking through his skin and the branch that the horse must have tripped over now has a piece of it impaled through the side of his stomach. D’Artagnan signs, giving the horse a sullen stare.

He had potential. Perhaps more than the careless person who rode him.

But the poor stallion was suffering, his nays slowly subsiding as it must have caused him too much pain to call out for no savior. D’Artagnan withdraws his pistol, kneeling down by the beast, stroking the soft hair between his ears, wanting to provide at least a little comfort as a balm to his pain. D’Artagnan didn’t want him to see the bullet coming.

Abélard looks side to side, in quick alert when he hears the gun fire, calling out for d’Artagnan as if he’ll save him once again. He turns behind him, watching the veteran musketeer with confusion when he sees the pistol in his hand. “That bullet could have called unwanted attention!” He exclaims, furious that d’Artagnan would do such a thing with no warning or no mindful thinking that they were still behind enemy lines.

D’Artagnan doesn’t respond, only watching as the beast’s eyes turn glassy, blood turning the vessels in his eyes dark red. “Why didn’t you just use a knife and slit its throat for fucks sake?”

“On my farm in Gascony, my father told me a bullet was considered the most painless way to kill a doomed animal. We killed wounded horses like this during the war. A loyal, valent animal like a horse deserved much better than what we put them through. They didn’t ask to be our legs, we just took them by force. And you Abélard, you’ve just disregarded a life. This horse died for you and you wanted me to slice through its throat like a pig?”

“But our lives are at stake-“

“You don’t get it do you?” d’Artagnan shouts. “This life of soldiering is not about who lives or who dies. It’s about the lives you change and the lives you strive to protect! Be it a human being or a young foal, you put your life on the line for them no matter what! Wake up!”

Abélard stops, clutching his things in a pathetic show of emotion as his blue eyes start welling up with water yet he doesn’t let them fall. “I don’t want to die.”

D’Artagnan wipes his bloody hand across his nose, breathing in through his nostrils and out through his mouth to calm down. Such a confession was not entirely too surprising. Any man who faces death is somewhat afraid of it, it wasn’t shameful, it's just…is. Death is natural. But nothing was natural about war, many young men lives were stolen before their time, just because their King expected them to die for him. But maybe the message is starting to break through the stone walls that Abélard has so carefully constructed. D’Artagnan is willing to accept this confession as a step forward into progress.

He stands, walking around the lame horse instead of walking over him and grasps Abélard weakly by the shoulder. “I don’t want to either. But the day will come, and I don’t intend on that day being today.” D’Artagnan reassures.

“You’re not going to call me a coward for admitting that?” Abélard asks wearily, his eyes holding a look of detachment.

“I’m done with the names if you decide you’re finished with the one man stunt you’re trying to pull.”

After a minute, Abélard smirks, “It’s a deal, rat.”

D’Artagnan smirks as well, “And you just ruined the moment.”

**~*~*~*~*~**

The mission goes well without any further complications, even the Marquis was quite negotiable. Of course, with a little “persuasion”, he was more than willing to hand over what was due to the king. Yet on the way there, d’Artagnan felt whole-heartedly that Abélard and he were starting to fall into a fine dynamic. They were beginning to understand each other.

At the campfire, Abélard would tell him how it was to drink the finest wine and the planned fiasco that he and his brothers would pull for the ladies. D’Artagnan in turn told him about Gascony, how his people were misunderstood, yet growing up, his father taught him to value the smaller things in life; like the wind and rivers, their crops, their animals and just being in-tune with the natural world instead of the industrial power that France was starting to adopt. Of course, d’Artagnan envied Abélard’s comfortable life and how he had all his options open whereas d’Artagnan’s was limited.

D’Artagnan’s war stories were considered enthralling to Abélard, who would ask questions out of child-like curiosity. Abélard’s brothers weren’t brave enough to handle the stress of the military, so Abélard thought he was going to make his father proud by joining the King’s right hand division. It wasn’t the Red Guards, but his father seemed pleased that at least one of his son’s may bring honor to his house. It was something to brag about at social events and for his father to gain more notable allies rather than being just proud of his son's tough decisions.

D’Artagnan was shocked to hear the treatment of Abélard’s father towards him. Sensing as if his father had taken him for granted, never really paying much attention. He never had faith in him, and in order to mask that feeling of rejection, Abélard hid it behind a mask of self-confidence. He didn’t want people to know or understand the real him, because he didn’t like who he was on the inside.

He was hoping that the Musketeers would change that for him and so d’Artagnan vowed to help in any way he could, like a comrade’s duty to a fellow soldier.

When d’Artagnan and Abélard left the Marquis’ estate, it wasn’t long before it began to rain and both musketeers had to stop by a nearby inn for shelter from the weather.

“They don’t have a stable boy for the horses.” D’Artagnan commented sadly, before he started to walk to the entrance of the inn’s stable. Abélard moves to stop him, taking the reins from his hands.

“Ask them for a room, I’ll put Cluster away.” D’Artagnan took a mental note of Abélard’s use of his horse’s name, making the musketeer nod his head in approval.

“Hurry before I’ll take the best spot.” He jokes, before turning for the door of the inn.

The inn looked rather dilapidated on the outside, but when d’Artagnan takes a foot inside, there's a nice fire in the chimney going, whilst some guests were drinking wine and talking amongst themselves in a corner around the hearth. It felt cozy, bright despite the dark coloring of the wood and practically no light from the large windows.

There was a large stairwell leading to the rooms above and the clerk was there at the check-in desk directly on the side of the door. D’Artagnan is mindful of the fact that he was shaking water everywhere as he walks with the poncho he wears. Yet the womanly inn-keeper smiles regardless with humble hospitality. D’Artagnan thinks he should come to wealthy parts of the country more often, as their service seemed to be quality compared to the coin that’s spent on a room and amenities.

“Good evening madam, would you happen to have a room with two separate beds?” He asks, the woman’s smile now falling as she addresses him, with a thick foreign accent.

“I’m sorry Monsieur but there’s only one room available with one bed. The storm has everyone caught tonight.”

“Well, is there another inn around the vicinity?”

“Unfortunately there’s none that I can think of.”

D’Artagnan signs, “I guess we’ll manage.”

“Then that’ll be ten sliver for the key. Bath is two sliver, and food will be two as well. Yet I’ll be kind and give you wine for one.” D’Artagnan stares at the frank inn-keeper in disbelief.

“As a matter of fact, me and my partner will brave out the storm-“

“I can pay for it.” Abélard announces behind him, making d’Artagnan jump at the sudden intrusion. “I have enough coins left over from my travels.”

D’Artagnan almost doesn’t want to inconvenience him, but not enough to stop Abélard’s hand from digging in his money pouch to hand the lady her payment. Strangely, d’Artagnan feels rather piqued about this. Abélard’s ability to hand over large amounts of money makes d’Artagnan a bit envious but flattered all the same.

Shortly, they go to their room, discussing the situation of the bed on their way up. When they come upon the room, it’s spacious, enough for someone to sleep on the floor whilst someone is asleep on the bed. Yet the floor seems uninviting to d’Artagnan, as he sees rats scurry from the light. Even in the richest of inns can you find the flaws.

“I’ll take the floor.” Abélard says, already starting to set his bag down on the floor to set up, but d’Artagnan quickly stops him. For whatever reason would this thought compel him into doing this, he does not know.

“No share…with me.” He speaks, hoping that he doesn’t sound unsure. This man was his arch-nemesis just a few days ago, now d’Artagnan feels rather foolish to be so open towards this. Before, he would have be glad to see this same man beneath him as he slept on a warm mattress, but now, he can’t permit himself into letting Abélard just sleep anywhere, especially since he paid for everything. “I’m alright with it, if you are.”

Abélard’s blue eyes are searching, his facial expression seeming to be rather touched by d’Artagnan’s offer. “I’m fine d’Artagnan. Really.”

“No, I insist.” D’Artagnan reassures and Abélard finally nods in acceptance.

Eventually, as the night drags on, both men are dressed in far warmer clothes and they are clean from the muck and grim that came with them from outside. To shed the previous days behind them with warm water and soap was an idyllic pleasure. The pleasure so refreshing that d’Artagnan begins to think of Athos, as he and Abélard sit on the bed, side by side.

“What are you thinking about?” Abélard asks, watching d’Artagnan stare of the lantern’s fire on the wall in deep thought.

“Nothing just...how much I’m missing Paris right now.”

Abélard nods slowly, “I’m not looking forward to it at all.”

D’Artagnan turns from the lantern to Abélard in curiosity, “why not?”

“Sometimes I feel I’m not welcome. Rightly so but, Athos hates me and I’m sure the others despise me just as much. These past few days have got me thinking what I’ve been trying to achieve and the reasons behind it. I’m starting to realize that pleasing my father isn’t all I want to accomplish. I want to be happy doing what I do, not miserable in order to please a man who doesn't care if I live or die.” Abélard sighs.

“Are you miserable?”

“Sometimes I feel like there’s no way out. So to put it in simpler terms, yes, I am miserable.”

D’Artagnan decides to cheer him up, putting his healing hand on Abélard’s shoulder, “You’ll find what makes you happy, eventually. We all have a hard time finding our place in this world, but the difficulty journey is the joy about finding it.”

Abélard is silent for a brief time before responding, “You’re very wise for being so young.”

D’Artagnan licks his lips, internally thanking Athos for all the knowledge he’s passed onto him during all those years of hard lessons and being together. He never would have made it here alive if it weren’t for him.

“Sometimes we need teachers in order to guide us, Athos, Aramis, and Porthos were mine and I could be that same friend to help you when need me to be there. Don’t be afraid to ask or tell me anything. My door is always open and in there, there'll be no judgment.” D’Artagnan feels the beginnings of sleep starting to reach his eyes.

But what d’Artagnan didn’t expect, and what awakes him, is the massive hug Abélard gives him before he eventually lets him go. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that before, from someone.” He says, genuinely. “Thank you, d’Artagnan. I’m not going to let you down.”

D’Artagnan nods, letting the whole situation go when Abélard goes under the blankets to find sleep. Yet d’Artagnan finds it hard to fall into slumber, when his mind keeps racing back towards the fact that Abélard’s embrace did something to him.

It gave him goosebumps. And a strange feeling residing in his heart.

Maybe he was starting to understand how it felt to be Athos. Maybe.

As the night progresses, Abélard wakes up, hearing the light snores of d’Artagnan beside him. He makes the frightening decision to turn over to face d’Artagnan’s back, putting his arms around the smaller man, one hand around his waist and the other around his neck, bringing his nose to rest between the strands of his hair, smelling the gunpowder and the scent that may just be distinctly d’Artagnan. Slowly Abélard becomes addicted, curling around him before he fits his head on the same pillow, and eventually finding rest. He had his qualms about how d’Artagnan would react in the morning, but he needs this to feel better, to feel like he was wanted, to feel like he belonged. It was a glorious feeling, and he didn’t want it to end as quickly as it came.

It felt like holding a lover in an embrace, the mutual feelings swimming back and forth in an infinite cycle. No, Abélard did not want this to end in the slightest. Though sleep does find Abélard again, falling into the best dreams he had in a while. Some overwhelmingly filling with d’Artagnan and his father. But Abélard won’t let good things become nightmares. Not again.

Across the distance, in Paris, Athos lays on his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore again the cold, empty spot that so rightfully belonged d’Artagnan as he reassures himself that d’Artagnan knows what he’s doing. That’s he's safe and warm without him and the others there to watch his back.

Yet that feeling of dread doesn’t subside from this endless sea of emotional gravitation, and the captain is unable to find the shores to peace. His dreams become terrors without his rock, but he keeps telling himself, one more day, and d’Artagnan will be back to take them from whence they came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OHHHH! IT"S GETTING HOT AND JUICY IN HERE! (Athos, someone's loving on your man!)
> 
> I'll be honest, I don't remember if Abélard was an only child or not...ah well. There's going to be a bunch of plot twists coming up, and you guys are gonna love it and hate it trust me.
> 
> But I hope ya'll enjoyed, though tell me what you think and if it was worth the wait :)


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